"Describe an experience that you have had or a concept you have learned about that intellectually excites you. When answering this question, you may want to consider some of the following questions: Why does this topic excite you? How does it impact the way you or others experience the world? What questions do you continue to ponder about it?"
I have never understood children's stories.
During the summer, while Hurricane Irene was fooling people into panic, I was reading a children's book filled with many inspiring short stories, one of which includes "The Sunrise," written by W. E. Fishbaugh. The story portrays a very young boy, Paul, who witnesses his first sunrise, and his inability to convey his awestruck reaction to his newest encounter.
I wasn't surprised at why Paul is not able to explain his feelings, perhaps it's because his vocabulary bank does not yet possess all the adjectives and nouns essential to capture the subtle beauty of a sunrise.
I was surprised at how I cannot recall any instance that I was as stunned as this boy.
I believe I was young once. I am sure I have had many first-times in the past seventeen years of my life. But when was the last time I experienced such amazement that my tongue suddenly curled upon itself and refused to be of use?
The question has been gnawing at my mind ever since. My first guess is that perhaps I am an apathetic individual, but I remember how personally it hurt when a fictional character loses her dad in his battle with lung cancer. Then I drift off to the second conjecture that it is because I don't read enough, but my mother's constant reminder for me to "do something with my [beloved] library" falsifies this speculation also. I have a few theories after these two, but all ultimately prove themselves to be contradictions. The most likely hypothesis is that I am past my primetime to experience such blissful astonishment and awe.
That's no biggie, though.
If my hypothesis was true ― if I was indeed past my primetime ― there are still many opportunities in the future. I have the long-awaited college life; I have the life after college, perhaps graduate school, in order to experience at least one Paul's sunrise. I still have a long way ahead. It doesn't matter whether or not the journey is going to be rough or smooth, turbulent or tranquil ― the mere presence and possibility of it present to me much unimaginable potential and hopefulness.
I once dreamed of being a grown-up, yet now I cannot help but wonder: Why is that? Why are we in such a hurry to grow up? We know it's one of Life's inevitability, so why are we rushing for it? Instead, we should stop whatever we are doing for a moment, think of everything and everyone we have right now, appreciate them, and most importantly, treasure them.
So let us take a breather. Slowly and deeply. And try to remember our first sunrise.
I have never understood children's stories.
During the summer, while Hurricane Irene was fooling people into panic, I was reading a children's book filled with many inspiring short stories, one of which includes "The Sunrise," written by W. E. Fishbaugh. The story portrays a very young boy, Paul, who witnesses his first sunrise, and his inability to convey his awestruck reaction to his newest encounter.
I wasn't surprised at why Paul is not able to explain his feelings, perhaps it's because his vocabulary bank does not yet possess all the adjectives and nouns essential to capture the subtle beauty of a sunrise.
I was surprised at how I cannot recall any instance that I was as stunned as this boy.
I believe I was young once. I am sure I have had many first-times in the past seventeen years of my life. But when was the last time I experienced such amazement that my tongue suddenly curled upon itself and refused to be of use?
The question has been gnawing at my mind ever since. My first guess is that perhaps I am an apathetic individual, but I remember how personally it hurt when a fictional character loses her dad in his battle with lung cancer. Then I drift off to the second conjecture that it is because I don't read enough, but my mother's constant reminder for me to "do something with my [beloved] library" falsifies this speculation also. I have a few theories after these two, but all ultimately prove themselves to be contradictions. The most likely hypothesis is that I am past my primetime to experience such blissful astonishment and awe.
That's no biggie, though.
If my hypothesis was true ― if I was indeed past my primetime ― there are still many opportunities in the future. I have the long-awaited college life; I have the life after college, perhaps graduate school, in order to experience at least one Paul's sunrise. I still have a long way ahead. It doesn't matter whether or not the journey is going to be rough or smooth, turbulent or tranquil ― the mere presence and possibility of it present to me much unimaginable potential and hopefulness.
I once dreamed of being a grown-up, yet now I cannot help but wonder: Why is that? Why are we in such a hurry to grow up? We know it's one of Life's inevitability, so why are we rushing for it? Instead, we should stop whatever we are doing for a moment, think of everything and everyone we have right now, appreciate them, and most importantly, treasure them.
So let us take a breather. Slowly and deeply. And try to remember our first sunrise.
